panic panic


I always wanted to be Mel C in my primary school Spice Girls cover band, but since then I have consistently let myself down. rather than a face-kicking whirlwind of grrl power, I’ve become a sickly Melanie in Gone With The Wind, bruising my skin on cotton sheets while hanging onto the thriftiness of Scarlett O’Hara with feeble and lady-like arms and looking admirably at my boring husband Ashley. I almost fainted the other day, which is precisely the kind of leisure the latter Melanie would approve of.

good stress gets you going, making you spray papers with intelligent black dots or tick to-do lists like they are drugs. but even when things start to go my way I seem to scream and close my eyes in bewilderment. it’s a bottom-of-the-well-kind of panic and the walls are all slimy and wet.

I was never meant to be Mel C anyway. I was Victoria and she never sang or danced or did anything impressive except looking sincerely pissed off with everything.

in magazines


framing girls in hotel rooms, staring absently at distant corners. the moody look and crossed-leg pose among snake-like smoke fumes. girls on fields with waves of flowers. framing girls in urban settings, Brooklyn beauties stiff as arrows, behind the bars of inhibition, girls with sunset mouths, unattainable girls, soft and sweet, a sticky exhibition. girls with the forced smiles of american dreams, a plastic gaze, continuous love-themes. framing girls artistically, the long neck and suggestive shadow. boys frame girls in the fading day-glow, oh the simulacrum.